


Haruspex

by Strudelmugel



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical, Historical Fantasy, Multi, Other, Plague, pathologic au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strudelmugel/pseuds/Strudelmugel
Summary: You are Tomas Septys, a surgeon. You’re coming back to your hometown, summoned by a disturbing letter from your sister.
Relationships: Austria/Hungary (Hetalia)
Kudos: 4





	Haruspex

**Author's Note:**

> *reupload, I deleted the old story by accident. The original was called Panacea.
> 
> Tomas - Lithuania  
> Jānis - Latvia  
> Bohumila - Czechia  
> Claudia - Nyo Austria  
> Gunner - Denmark  
> Daina - Nyo Lithuania
> 
> This is an au based on the game Pathologic 2. You don't need to have played the game to understand this, but I'd recommend it anyway because it's a cool game.

_“So, Doctor Septys, your performance was a flop. You’re unfit for the role. A cursed production! This is our second attempt… and a second failure.”_

* * *

The theatre was silent, so silent that Tomas could hear his footsteps as he walked onstage. It was a soundless world here, but that didn’t mean he was alone. There was the so-called Bachelor. A Bachelor of medicine, Eduard Mets, from the eastern land to the west, and Jānis, the charlatan miracle worker. Both were shrouded in their own failures, just like Tomas, left in their bubbles of shame. And, of course, there were the dead. 

The theatre had been turned into a morgue only a few days ago, a far cry from the lively house of performance. But the performers had not left. He spied them from the balconies, with their bony beaks and glowing, amber eyes.

An operating table lay before him, covered in a fresh sheet and surgical tools. His alter. And where the audience once stood, there were more sheets, not so fresh and covering the plague’s victims. Eduard walked amongst them, finally at a loss for words. At the other side of the room, there was the faint shadow by the door, the figure of Jānis, curled up on himself. The walls either side, and every corner, were lost to the darkness.

The spotlights shone in Tomas’s eyes, so he decided to get off the stage, stepping down to join the bodies. There were the faces of those who had been bound to him: the children he’d sworn to protect. All dead now. The Sand Plague had snuffed each of them out. His heart couldn’t bear the pain, and threatened to collapse in on itself. Of all the evidence of his failures, this was the cruellest.

Some doctor he was.

He turned to Eduard, and they shared a haunted look. “They don’t trust me anymore,” said the man. “I wasn’t even invited to the final council. Were you?”

Tomas ignored Eduard's ramblings. He moved on. He moved past the bodies of his friends. The people of the town lay groaning, barely conscious to bear witness to their agonising deaths. The only thing they would be awake for was pain. 

Tomas stopped in front of Jānis. The boy looked up, eyes wild. “Turns out the birds aren’t birds at all.” He nodded to the orderlies in the balcony. “Want to know what they are? Lean down and I’ll tell you.” Tomas did so. “Lower, lower now, come on.” He crouched in front of the boy. “They’re fingers!”

Tomas frowned. “Did they tell you that?” And did it matter?

Jānis nodded. “Yeah. This is a direct quote: “We’re not birds. We’re fingers!” That’s why people call them Executors.” He paused, looking at Tomas strangely. “Are you tired? I can relieve your headache.”

Tomas wrinkled his nose. “Go ahead. Try. It’s not like you can actually do it.”

Jānis’s smile fell, and he curled up again. It was true; Tomas was certain. Had anyone seen this so-called Changeling perform any of his miracles? To the end, Érzsebét had vouched for the boy, but many said he was a demon. It didn’t matter anymore, though. Only he, the Haruspex, had found anything close to a solution.

There was a stairwell to the right, the only place, apart from the stage, with lighting. Tomas climbed up onto the balcony. Surely, the Executors would have something to say.

The nearest Executor towered over him, a terrifying figure in a fur cloak and bony mask, like a bird skull, or a finger, he supposed. Thin bones and pieces of wood were tied to the cloak. These were old costumes, once used by the people of the Steppe but repurposed by the theatre they’d volunteered at, before putting their services towards medical assistance. The bones were new, though. 

The mask sure looked like a bird skull, if segmented. It had nostrils. 

“Do you want to receive your payment?” The Executor spoke, and Tomas didn't know what to say to that. “Well, everyone will get paid what they’re due in the Cathedral. That’s where the final choice will be made.”

Tomas shivered. He didn’t like the way the thing stared at him. “By whom?” Did he want to know?

“The authorities.”

“Fitting…” The Cathedral, where everything would end. His failures would not go unpunished. It was where he needed to go, whether he liked it or not. Maybe there was still time to fix everything, to save the few people left in the town. He wasn’t dead yet, so there was no choice but to keep fighting. 

He just needed time, and to be allowed to argue his case.

Tomas climbed back down the stairs and went outside.

* * *

_“Hello, darkness…”_

* * *

Things were far from silent here. In the distance, screams and groans mixed with the roar of fire and gunshots. Before him were two rows of army tents, assembled in the courtyard. It was dark, and the air was thick, as if clouds of plague were floating before him, choking him like the air was ash and disease. The only light came from bonfires and the porch lanterns. A pair of soldiers stood either side of the theatre doors, ignoring him. In the distance, another soldier skulked past, little more than a patrolling silhouette.

Tomas was probably the most hated man in town, but it was a title he’d earned, and one he would bear until he fixed his reputation. It didn’t matter now, though. Completely numb, he took a step forward.

The tents were full of more corpses, and the barely-living who barely stood out from the corpses. The line between the two was thin, one crossed easily. They were the soldiers who had been sent to help, who had made everything worse, in the end, and now only added to the casualties. The Captain managed to escape the plague, only through use of a bullet to the head.

Tomas reached the end of the tents, where the noises were all around him now. Dogs barked, people cried out. Barbed wire blocked off most of the paths. There was only one road left. Tomas stepped out of the courtyard, into the street. Before him, more soldiers, cornering the townsfolk in a paddock with the intention of burning the infection out of them. He could only watch as the flamethrowers were raised and the people engulfed. They screamed, spasming, fiery dancers, until their vocal chords melted and they collapsed on the grass. There was nothing he could do but bite down a wave of sickness and disgust. He moved along.

The army had more townsfolk lined up against a wall, under the spotlight of a floodlight. There was a raised gun parallel to each of them. The officer noticed his staring, turning to him with a blank, gas mask face. “Move along, doctor, nothing to see here.”

“You’re butchering them, you bastards,” he cried, “stop this circus, right now!”

“You know better than anyone there’s no saving them from the Sand Pest. It makes people mad. We’re putting them out of their misery, to protect the healthy.”

“You’re burning them alive!”

“We have to. This disease has wiped out half of our men already.”

Tomas snarled. “You deserve it.”

“Enough of the lecture. If you were better at your job, we wouldn’t have to.”

He couldn’t save them. Gunshots rang. Tomas walked on.

He kept walking, down to the bridge where a hunched, scruffy figure was waiting for him, a small face peering out of worn, oversized robes. He didn’t know Bohumila had survived, but there she was. As sickly and grey as she was, she fixed him with a dissecting look. One of her pupils was smaller than the other. “I know where you are going,” she said in a slow, tired voice, “I want to give you some advice.”

Tomas nodded. “Thank you, but be quick.”

“I won’t take long. The town is gone, and to hell with it. But the Kin are also gone. Your family is gone. Your sister remains unavenged; her path, unfollowed.” She took a long, rattling breath. “The children whose lives you were to guard are all dead. They trusted you. But you are the only one left. Do you at least want to save yourself?”

“No,” Tomas’s voice cracked. “But not all is lost! I can curb this outbreak. It’s why I’m going to the Cathedral. If I don’t, they will choose to go ahead with the bombardment.”

Bohumila nodded. “Then heed my advice: you think she is a friend and he is a foe because he brought the cannons? Talk to him first, not her .”

He nodded again. “I need to go.”

Tomas walked on, but his vision turned white with a blinding flash, gone in an instant. The bridge swam. The air was thick with soot and dust and something . When he turned around, Bohumila was dead.

Numb. Everything was numb at this point, so he carried on. Through the streets, and their dark puddles. More bodies lay on stretchers, rows of white sheets whilst the infected burned. A few lucky souls had the luxury of a coffin, but most were lined up in the street and left there. There were simply too many to bury, especially now Elise was gone. 

In one garden, he noticed another hunched figure: the Rat Prophet. Funny, he thought the fellow was something living in his dreams. 

Maybe he was feverish.

He wasn’t stopped as he passed army barricades. Nothing mattered anymore. Houses, barrels and people burned. A pair of children played in the street, seemingly oblivious to the death and destruction around them. No one came to collect them. More children observed from the shadows. Maybe he could save them. Maybe all hope was not lost, even if his own children were gone.

Just beyond the Cathedral was the Polyhedron, the tower made partially of its own blueprints, its own idea. It glowed faintly, clawing through the smog, a fantastical building that simply couldn’t be, but there it was. It loomed above the town, more important than anything else. Tomas hated the thing.

He stood in front of the Cathedral, an impressive building in itself, with Gothic pillars and huge, heavy doors. It dwarfed him, the building where his fate, and that of the town, would be sealed. 

He entered the Cathedral. 

The building was empty, save for one, long table. Seated at each end were Commander Tino and Inquisitor Claudia, tiny compared to the cavernous walls stretching up to an unseen ceiling. They sat in silence, not even acknowledging Tomas’s presence. Behind the table, in front of the stained-glass windows, was a larger-than-life pendulum, chiming in a new hour. The last hour? For the town? Maybe. He considered Bohumila’s words. 

He approached Tino first. 

“Are you the doctor?” asked the Commander. For a baby-face, the man had an intimidating air. He was dressed smartly in his military uniform, despite the bags under his eyes and the fear on his face.

“Indeed.”

“What do you want?”

Desperation in his voice, Tomas leaned on the table. “We can cure this disease; I know how!”

Tino narrowed his eyes. “And you have proof of this?”

“It’s…” Tomas considered his words, “not exactly scientific. Our people have a different approach.”

Tino scoffed. “What nonsense. Name and occupation?”

“Septys. One of the three doctors operating in this town.” If he could call the other two such a thing…

Tino considered him. “I see. Give me one reason to call off the bombardment. You have one chance.”

Now it was Tomas’s turn to consider, choosing his words carefully. “I know how to make a cure; I have the recipe, but I need time to produce it on a larger scale.” He held his breath.

“No, sorry Septys. Maybe if you had a train full of serum and an army of doctors, I’d have been convinced. As it is, it’s too great a risk to go back now.”

“We had twelve days. It wasn’t enough time.” He turned away. Maybe he could reason with Claudia. She looked at him stonily.

“Why did you come?”

“To tell you we have a method of stopping the plague.”

She looked back down at the table. “The plague, not the outbreak.”

“Who cares?”

“We already decided everything without you.”

Tomas knew what she meant, but he had to ask. “What did you decide?”

Claudia wrinkled her nose. “Who are you to demand this information? You’re a backwood, self-taught doctor who practices barbaric traditional medicine. I know who you are: the person I was wrong to pin my hopes on. Out, now!”

“I only need one more day,” Tomas pleaded, but she ignored him.

He looked around for any sign of hope, and there he was: Feliks Łukasiewicz, the theatre director, stood before the pendulum. His multicoloured scarf fell to his knees, and his hair fell thin and blond. When did he get here?

But it was another person to talk to, so Tomas went to plead. Feliks regarded him with amusement.

“So, you insist on a second attempt? Stubborn.”

“Not a second, a first one.”

He thought about it. “Alright. Let us imagine that the last train has not yet left the station. Don’t be late.”

“Alright.”

The world faded to black.

* * *

_12 Days Earlier?_

* * *

_You are Tomas Septys, a surgeon. You’re coming back to your hometown, summoned by a disturbing letter from your sister._

* * *

Tomas awoke to the sound of the moving train, and the feeling of the carriage floor rattling around under him. He pushed the blanket off him, leaving his makeshift bed on the floor and standing up.

The carriage wasn’t made for transporting people, maybe cattle or supplies, but here he was. It was drafty, cold air whistling in through the walls. There were crates and boxes, some pulled round his bed to make something of a room for himself. He had been travelling for a week now. The carriage was illuminated by a single lantern, hanging by the door. 

A coffin, piled high on the boxes, came loose at the shaking and fell to the floor. Tomas stared at it. The lid opened, pushed up by a large, pale hand, and out stepped a strange man, with shocking hair that spiked up everywhere. His clothes were ragged, but well cared for. He looked around and nodded at Tomas, who could only watch. The man closed the lid, and sat on the coffin casually, like he hadn’t just crawled out of it.

He looked at Tomas and grinned. “How did you get inside this coffin?”

Tomas stared at him. “Me? You were the one in the coffin.”

He shrugged. “I was hiding.”

“From whom? Death?” Was that a joke? Tomas wasn’t the sort, but he had to ask.

“Yes, and people too. It’s a bit early for me to be showing my face,” he said mysteriously. “A bit too early.”

Tomas didn’t know how to respond, so he moved on. “And what would I call you?”

“Gunner, your fellow traveller.”

“I’m Tomas. So, you’re visiting our town?”

Gunner nodded. “A coffin is the best mode of transportation there is. It can get you to unimaginable places.”

Tomas considered that. “You look alive, though. I think that vehicle is a little beyond your means, for now.”

Gunner shrugged. No one sold tickets to ride this train. The two fell into silence. All Tomas wanted was a peaceful ride home, no distractions.

The wheels screeched and the carriage lurched violently. It shuddered, and lurched again. Tomas and Gunner tried to steady themselves, but the train stopped suddenly with a crash, and Tomas was thrown forwards. His head smacked into the floor and everything went black.

* * *

When he awoke, the carriage was dark. The lantern had smashed in the crash, and Gunner was nowhere to be seen, along with his coffin. The doors had been thrown open, wind catching the grass and rocky cliffs that stretched out for miles. He got up, took out his own lamp, and lit it. 

Leaving the carriage, Tomas found the train had derailed, the front carriages smashed and lying in the grass. He moved towards them. In the distance, figures stood around raging bonfires and there was something else, in front of the train. Something huge. Tomas noticed the train’s cargo had spilled onto the steppe: piles of simple, wooden coffins, much like the one Gunner had travelled in.

And in front of the train, the towering Something took form: a larger-than-life bull staring down at him like he was a rat. It was the bull that the train had crashed into, but it took undisturbed. It was Bos Turokh, the creator of earth. Had he stopped the train on purpose? It looked like the front carriages had been thrown aside. Did he not want Tomas to make it home? Was this a warning?

Man and God stared at each other for a long moment, then Tomas moved on. The people gathered around the bonfires were starting to take shape too: Executors. Dozens of them, in rows across the track and more on hills. All with glowing, amber eyes, and the silhouette of a curved beak. Waiting for him? Maybe they knew what was going on. There were other structures, too, like scarecrows made of rags, but there were no crops here. Ash or something else hung in the air. In places, it had gathered into clouds. Tomas approached the nearest Executor. 

“Railroads are beautiful,” it began. “They always lead to one place you can’t turn from... except when there’s a silly mistake, like this crash. Dying to escape fate. Stupid. Boring. What was Bos Turokh trying to achieve here? Life can never prevent death.”

Tomas frowned. “What is ahead, then? Death? Why the fires?”

“As you can see, blood no longer flows in this artery. There’s a clot. You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Do you have medicine with you?”

“What clot? What are those black flakes?”

The Executor regarded him. “How should I know? You’re the doctor, not us. Go and see. We’re only here to make sure no other trains are derailed. We’ll fix yours too, once the beast has moved.”

Tomas sighed. “I have a lot of time on my hands, then. Bulls are stubborn.”

He moved on, following the tracks. He passed the bonfires and scarecrows, and the air grew thicker. The Executors ignored him. A flash of light, and the ash swarmed him. Tomas choked as soot and mould filled his lungs, and he keeled over. The last thing he saw was a scarecrow, through the ash.

* * *

He was back in the train. It was travelling smoothly. Gunner was sitting on his coffin, rattling a pair of dice in a tin can. He threw the dice on the floor and looked up. 

“Want to share secrets?”

“Why?” Tomas didn’t like this.

Gunner shrugged. “You can share your worries, and I’ll take them with me.”

He snorted. “Into the coffin? Deal.”

“Who goes first?”

“You.”

Gunner took a deep breath. “I’m worried people won’t be so happy to see me in the Town. What if they shun me and slam their doors in my face? What if my toll is too small? I could fail to meet my goal. No, I can do it!” He scooped up his dice.

Tomas looked at him. “Are you a preacher?”

“Not really… Your turn now. Be honest, and your fate will change. That’s how it goes.”

It took a while for Tomas to find the right words. Then he hesitated. Should he speak? He should speak. “I’m worried about my sister. She summoned me with a concerning letter. I fear something bad has happened.”

Gunner nodded. “Do you want to play?”

“No, I’m not interested.”

* * *

Tomas was in a house now, in a hallway, empty save for stacks of coffins. The place was dark and dingy, walls covered in dirt and the corners in shadows. It wasn’t his home. It felt wrong, being here. He needed to get out.

There were doors all along the hall. He opened one. Three women in a bedroom, under a spotlight. They looked at him, and mimed shock before turning into masked performers, the room now empty of furniture. They froze in their positions. Tomas left.

In another one, was a single man. He wore a collar, one made for cows, and he had a long braid down to his waist. Tomas only vaguely recognised him. He, too, turned into a masked mime, fists clenched and ready to fight.

In the third room, Tomas found a cabinet. Surely, this place was abandoned. Whoever had lived here would not miss their supplies: needles, empty bottles and spare change he would need.

But the house was not abandoned. Turning around, he found a girl, curled up in bed, arms wrapped around his head. She was shivering, despite layers of clothes. “I hear heavy steps,” she rasped, “I can’t see you. Are you death?”

He studied her. “You’re feverish. How can I help you?”

“Water. I need water. Please...”

Tomas nodded. “Where do I get it?”

“Outside. In the yard. Hard to talk.”

“I’ll get you your water. You can keep silent now.” He left the room, then left the house, stepping into a little yard overgrown with weeds. Along a dirt path was a water barrel, and at the end of the path was the train. He filled up one of the glass bottles, then moved towards the train. Two more mimes were stood on the roof of a carriage, dancing and flailing wildly. One knelt before the other, acting out ripping its own heart from its chest. Gunner was sat below, in the doorway.

“Thirsty, fellow traveller?” He asked.

“Not me, someone else.” 

“There is water in the barrel. Not for the first, or last, time, you have walked past your goal.”

Tomas scowled. “I saw the light. I thought it invited me here.”

“Like a moth.”

“Ouch.” Tomas turned around and went back down the path. In the light of a lamp, by the tracks, three children stood over a body. The children wore dog-head masks made of old potato sacks and cloth. He approached them, and the nearest spoke. 

“Each has two eyes and two ears. Most have one nose and one mouth. Riddle me this: if eyes and ears were switched, what would be right? If noses and mouths were switched, what would be fixed?”

“I- did you kill him?”

“Answer the question, Khayaala, brother . You’re a man of the steppe. You know the answer.”

“But I don’t…” And was it relevant to the body?

“Then be on your way, Khayaala. People don’t kill people.”

“Is that man alive, then?”

The children ignored him, so he went back inside. There were still living people to help. Ash started raining from the sky. Back in the house, the mimes were gone, replaced with coffins. Everything was dark, now. No more people, just empty shells.

Back in the room where the girl lay, two more figures stood arguing: a man and a boy. The man was tall and skinny, with a bowl haircut and round glasses. The boy had fluffy hair under a mouldy hat, and a long scarf. When they saw him enter, they turned into mimes. An Executor loomed over the bed, watching the girl. Tomas had half-expected her to turn into a mime too. The bird said nothing to him, and everything faded to black.

* * *

Tomas was on his little bed, in the corner of the carriage. Gunner was crouched next to him, keeping watch. 

“Bad dream?”

He nodded. “Yeah, a dream, I hope it doesn’t come true.” He hoped speaking that aloud wouldn’t make it come true.

“So you want to meet your sister?”

“Yes.” The world faded to black.

* * *

It was an overcast day, out on the steppe. Tomas was in a dirt arena, surrounded by a ring of stone pillars and boulders. Worms and Herb Brides gathered around to watch the spectacle, along with the people of the steppe. They talked amongst themselves in their language. His language. Before him, stood an older man, with grey hair and a patched tunic. Tomas approached him.

“Let Mother Earth guide your step, Kholboön. You haven’t forgotten your people, have you?” Kholboön: connected, a linked one.

Tomas nodded and thanked him in their language: “Bayarlaa, Kholboön.”

The man regarded him. “Do you have a good heart?”

“Who is the judge?”

The man smiled. “We hear the Earth with our hearts. The heart has a pulse; so does the Earth. If they sing in harmony, you hear the language of Earth and herbs. The language of warmth and cold. Look, and listen. What does the Earth say?”

Tomas listened. The voices, the chanting, was it their audience, or Mother Earth? “It says a lot of things.”

The man’s lip twitched. “A lot of time has passed. You were gone, and you forgot many things. Your heart is spoiled, Kin. Let us see if it’s rotten.”

“How can you see that?”

“The fight will show. Whose heart is keen? Who hears the unheard words? You will see my heart. The Kin’s blood runs through me; I was never torn from my people.”

“Neither was I.” Tomas stepped back and raised his fists. The man raised his, but didn’t move, letting Tomas strike the first blow. He punched. The man was caught in the stomach, doubling over, but he blocked the next shot. Tomas swung again and again. The man ducked and dipped to the side before following up with his own punch. Tomas blocked. When he retaliated, the man blocked again, but Tomas broke through it with an uppercut. His vision blurred, breath escaping him. Tomas stepped back to regain his stamina, avoiding the man’s blows until he caught his breath. The man kicked him in the chest, and he tasted blood. 

Tomas punched the man in the face. Then again, and again until he drew blood. When the man raised his hands in surrender, Tomas backed off.

The man smiled, seemingly satisfied with the result. “Let us trade hearts, Kholboön. Let us become kin.”

He frowned. “Why do you want mine? It’s rotten, right?”

“A river of good washes away a drop of rot. Mix your flesh with your kin.”

Tomas bowed his head. “Alright, let it be so.”

The two exchanged hearts.

* * *

Back in the carriage, Gunner was leaning against the door frame. The train was still moving. His coffin was lying across the floor.

“Almost there,” he said, grinning. 

“You relieved?”

“Oh, yes. Can’t wait to get there.”

Tomas nodded. “Feels like we’re riding in circles.”

“Well, it was nice passing the time with you,” he slapped his shoulder, “good luck with your sister. I’m sure she can’t wait.”

“I hope so. This trip has been a long time coming. Good luck to you too.”

* * *

_Tomas, my dear brother,_

_I write to you after so many years apart to beg you to return home, and quickly. Something, I fear, is horribly wrong, and I sense things are only going to get worse. Something terrible is going to happen, very soon. Something dangerous. I hope your studies have proven fruitful, because I need you here to help me. I don’t think I can solve this alone. Without you, and your skills as a surgeon, things will be a lot worse._

_I do not fear death, or the fact that I will grow old one day. What worries me isn’t what will happen to me, but the fact that I am the sole doctor in this town. If something were to happen, what would become of the people?_

_Please, Tomas, with haste._

_Your beloved sister, Daina Septys_

* * *

Tomas rose from the bodies at his feet, clutching his arm. He had not seen the three men waiting for him, lurking in the shadows. He saw them block his path, draw their knives, and now he was watching them bleed onto the tracks. The station was out on the steppe, with endless grass behind him, and the looming depot before him. It was the early hours of the morning and the sun had not risen.

It was not the welcome home he’d been expecting.


End file.
